Scalpel Songs
by want your rad bromance
Summary: /Granzcest/ The scalpels scrape together and make morbid sonnets at Szayel's bidding; Ilforte watches and bleeds. Five pieces of an eternal tragedy.
1. Never Too Late

He lay on the operating theatre, sedated and bound, preventing him from getting up even if he had waned to. Szayel moved about the area like an emaciated ghost, scalpels and scissors gleaming from their perches between his slender fingers. Ilforte watched him with the dazed solemnity exclusive to the heavily drugged, but those gold eyes refused to look upon him as anything but more work to be done, data to be collected. The Octava's lips were set in what could be called a pout on any other, on him, it was a morose schism between the desire for perfection and the desire to waste away, just to see what it felt like. Szayel seemed to subconsciously notice his brother's intoxicated musings and placed the edge of a scalpel on Ilforte's bare sternum. His hand applied pressure, but did not move from the spot, frozen perhaps by sudden memories of a different time. Blood blossomed to the surface like the flower of innocence wilting away into a hollow world, an empty void. Ilforte's eyes crawled towards the wound, only to meet Szayel's. Something burned behind the usually perfectly lacquered amber. The Octava leaned forward and licked the dribble of blood off his brother's chest experimentally.

"The world can be so cruel. can't it, brother?"

Ilforte, for once, could not have agreed more.


	2. Silver and Cold

It did not rain in Hueco Mundo itself, but Aizen-sama sometimes took it upon himself to present his Arrancar in Las Noches with a sudden and forceful deluge. The silvery light of the moon faded to a frigid grey throughout the palace corridors, everywhere except the semi-subterranean lair of Szayel Aporro. There, in the gleaming blue-green of test tubes, Ilforte watched with a mixture of disgust and mild interest as his younger brother gleefully dissected an unfortunate Shinigami. She had been screaming and thrashing throughout the entire operation, and the sudden silence gave the blond Arrancar a start. Szayel turned around with a dainty grimace gracing his narrow face.

"She was far too noisy." He proclaimed by way of explanation, one hand making a sweeping gesture to indicate his now bloodstained robes. "I cut her larynx." Szayel continued, as if it was as commonplace as turning on a light switch. Ilforte held his tongue; Szayel Aporro frowned. Gliding over to his brother like a bloody angel, he pressed their bodies together and wrapped his arms around Ilforte's neck, forcing him to take on all his weight. Not that it was much; the Octava was so ridiculously thin, he could have had the hollow bones of a bird. Ilforte's nose crinkled in distaste, for his brother had now gotten blood all over him as well. Noting the blond's disgust with his usual golden-eyed perception, he placed a seemingly chaste kiss on Ilforte's lips. "Come now, big brother. Don't be so petulant. You just know I love to share my sins with you."

The sound of falling rain mixed in with Szayel's breathing and the now dying Shinigami's gurgling until Ilforte could not tell them apart.


	3. Coin Operated Boy

How long had it been since Ilforte's death? Szayel had lost track of the time, secluded in his laboratory since he had finished with his two unwanted guests. True, the little Quincy and his Shinigami friend had been fun toys, but Ilforte had broken much harder than they had, and he eventually found himself drawn back to his pet project. Humming a coin-operated piano tune from somewhere in the vestiges of his swiftly tilting mind, Szayel Aporro grafted another piece of synthetic material onto his construct. The mock-Ilforte sat quietly, perfectly polished brown eyes staring down at his lap blankly. The Octava beamed to himself, proud of his sedate, obedient creation. Finished with the latest of a series of final touches, he moved the various surgical materials to curl up on this new pseudo-brother's lap. The two arms moved jerkily around him, a clockwork cocoon. A slight air of disconcertion wafted towards Szayel, but he blew it away, breath of his lonely Thanatos and feeble, dying Eros dismissing it. He would adjust, he would learn. Szayel Aporro turned his attention instead to his doll's sculpted chest, muscular torso, perfectly and precisely crafted cock, strong legs, so on and so forth.

He ignored the still-dull eyes and lack of willpower that had kept him interested in Ilforte all those years.


	4. Better Than Drugs

Szayel moaned loudly, back arching like a cat's into the pressure of his brother's body on top of him. Ilforte was all too willing to return the friction, willing to set aside the fact that Szayel fucked with pretty much anything and everything with two legs and a cock. For all his promiscuous tendencies, the Octava was not one to allow people to actually get close to him, get under his tight-fitting white shell. The rare instances that he felt despondent enough to actually remove his own clothes, to actually _submit_ to someone (namely his brother) were those that Ilforte had a perverse addiction to. Like an opiate and his deadly poppy brick, he craved Szayel's skeletal, lithe body, the sounds of his moans and gasps, the rough scrabbling of surprisingly sharp fingernails on his shoulders, chest, and thighs.

It was not out of love or care that Szayel submitted to and allowed for these furtive and wild sessions of incestuous passion; rather, he saw Ilforte as an outlet for their common experiences. In Las Noches, you either fought or fucked, and Szayel Aporro was not a creature who cared for constant, churlish violence. So he instead busied himself with the sexual torture of others, namely his elder brother. Perhaps out of spite, perhaps out of twisted addiction to Ilforte's rough touch, or perhaps it was subtle revenge for a rail-thin boy in oversized glasses allowing his elder brother to invade him in every way possible and enjoying every fucking second of it.


	5. The World is not Enough

Szayel sighed in frustration. Ilforte was proving to be obstinate once again, and few things vexed the Octava more than his older brother stretching the short leash he was kept on.

"Must you act like a child, Ilforte? You're quite stupid enough without this inane obdurate attitude."

Brown eyes glared at him venomously, and though his brother was neatly gagged, Szayel got the silent message: _Fuck you, you sick bastard._ Perhaps it was time for a different approach. Slinking over to his bound and beaten brother, he placed a hand on his brother's narrow face, so much like his own, but with a stronger jawline, more tan and vigorous. Szayel Aporro frowned in disgust. The mere fact that his brother was a stronger and more masculine version of himself was a niggling worm boring its way through the back of his mind. True, his intellect was vastly more preferable, but the aegis of perfection did not encompass anything short of a hundred and one percent. "Now, brother," he continued, forcing the bile of jealousy back down his mental trachea to churn with the hydrochloric acids of madness. "Are you going to be a good boy for me?" Szayel's free hand slunk down Ilforte's body, tracing over faded wounds and the surface of envy. The blond Arrancar stiffened, eyes venomously Morse Coding another reply: _Hell, no, I'm not. _The palm on Ilforte's face retracted for a spilt second, only to come crashing back in the form of a vicious slap. Szayel's eyes burned like gold coins dropped into a volcano of ashes. "I should kill you." He whispered, lapsing from his usual aloof intellectualism to lay bare his utter hatred of his brother. The words did not come just from Ilforte this time, but Szayel's subconscious as well, sing-songing the deadly taunt that kept his brother alive:

_You can't kill me. I'm too much like you, and you can't bear to see anything resembling you suffer._


End file.
